Enemies of the Empire (26 page)

Marcus looked piqued, though if I had been in the Silurian’s sandals, I’d have felt the same. Under Roman law a man must not only personally ensure that the accused is brought to court – which might be physically difficult with these vendetta gangs – but also he must stand before the judge and make the charge. From what Lucidus had said, that would be a quick way to ensure that portions of your anatomy would shortly be delivered piecemeal to your relatives.

‘In that case . . .’ Marcus was rising to his feet. He took the napkin which the pageboy brought and wiped the peach juice fastidiously from his fingertips, then extended a ringed and perfumed hand to show that the interview was at an end, ‘I do not think that we can help you much. You might circulate a description of your brother, and we can ask the town guards if they know anything, but otherwise there seems little we can do. Unless you would like Libertus to take you to that stall tomorrow, where the arm-guard was?’

Lucidus turned pale. ‘In the back streets at the bath-house end of town? I think not, citizen. I’d never venture there without a guard – since we are not permitted to wear knives in self-defence. Though somebody might make the trip on my behalf, perhaps, and try to purchase the item for me?’ He was looking at me meaningfully as he spoke, and it was quite clear which ‘somebody’ he had in mind. ‘At my expense, of course. I will pay whatever price the wretches ask.’

I had no wish to venture to the bath-house end again, after my worrying experience of a day or two before. Of course, in daylight, things were different – clearly the whole town used the public baths – but the stall was down an alley, and I didn’t relish the prospect of returning in the least. However, if Marcus ordered it, I would have to go.

I need not have worried. Marcus had a different plan in store for me. He said loftily, ‘Perhaps the optio can spare a servant to do the task for you – if you prefer not to send one of your own. Libertus will instruct him where to find the stall. He cannot go himself. We hope to leave for Isca shortly after dawn, as soon as fresh mounts and guards can be arranged.’ My face must have betrayed how horrified I felt, because he added with a smile, ‘My dear Libertus, don’t look so aghast. Of course we must undertake the trip again, otherwise the rebels will have won. We will re-equip the carriage and take a larger force, and this time we will keep up a proper pace – no stopping to investigate the deaths of slaves or interviewing swineherds about herds of wretched pigs.’

This was a rebuke to me, I recognised. Those investigations had been at my behest, and Marcus was making it clear that he held me morally responsible for everything that had delayed us up to now. He was still in this condescending mood as he permitted Lucidus to kiss the ring and take his leave, with many protestations of thanks and loyalty.

When the Silurian had finished bowing himself out, Marcus turned to me. ‘Well, I think that was dealt with satisfactorily. He’s forgotten that he came here to complain.’ He was so pleased with himself that I essayed a smile, but in doing so I clearly over-stepped the mark.

He frowned and formally proffered me the ringed hand in my turn, and I was obliged to make obeisance too. He hadn’t demanded that of me for days. ‘I will have the optio send your rations to your room,’ he said, as I struggled to my knees and bent to press my lips against the ring. ‘When I dine tonight I do not think your presence is required.’

He turned and allowed the slave to show him out, leaving me kneeling rather stiffly on the floor. I smiled a little wryly as I struggled to my feet.

I had not entirely escaped his displeasure, after all.

So I was condemned to eat my meal alone, I thought, as I made my way slowly back across the court towards my room. I had taken care to keep my face appropriately chagrined while Marcus was about, but in fact I was secretly relieved. My little punishment was not the deprivation he intended it to be.

For one thing the kitchen at the mansio had been busy half the day preparing a special meal for my patron’s sake, and I am not an enthusiast at the best of times for strong-tasting Roman treats. Sow’s udders are not my favourite dish, even when exquisitely baked, and kitchen orderlies at a military staging post are not apt to be the most accomplished chefs. Judging by the odours from the kitchen as I passed, tonight’s offering would be burnt and tough, and liberally doused with liquamen to disguise the fact – that revolting fish-paste sauce of which my patron is so fond, and which smells and tastes so powerfully strong that it will mask any shortcomings of the cook. If I was eating on my own, I would be spared all that. I could settle down to honest army stew and even send out for some good old-fashioned mead, instead of being obliged to drink watered Roman wine, of which I have never been particularly fond.

There was no one in the court or corridor to tell me otherwise, so without thinking about it very much I turned towards the sleeping room I’d occupied before. However, it seemed I was mistaken in assuming that it would be mine again. As soon I approached the door I heard the sound of voices from within. There seemed to be some sort of argument going on inside, though from here I could not make out the words.

I paused, surprised. Not so much because the room was occupied – this was after all a military inn, and they had not been anticipating our return. It was entirely to be expected that they would give my room to someone else. But one of the voices sounded like a girl’s – and that
was
astonishing.

Mansiones are military establishments, reserved for soldiers on the move, or travellers and messengers on imperial business. Women are not permitted past the gates unless they are accompanying important men – their husbands or their fathers – and rarely even then. I shook my head. There must be some other explanation for the voice. A castratus, or perhaps the youthful favourite of some wealthy man – some rich officials do keep pretty boys as ‘pets’ until their voices break.

In either case, this was no place for me.

I looked around. There was nobody in sight to ask directions from, and for a moment I stood hesitating, wondering where to go and what to do. Then the door of the room opened and the serving-boy came out – the same slave who had attended us in the office earlier.

He turned to me with an apologetic air. ‘I’m sorry, citizen. I went into the room to take your meal and found the lady was already there. I’m very sorry you were not informed. I don’t know how she got there, and she’s just refused to leave.’

‘Lady?’ I echoed in astonishment. When we first got back here to the mansio the officer had spoken of ‘people’ – in the plural – who had wanted words with me, but I’d forgotten that there might be more than one. And certainly I’d not expected this. ‘I don’t know any lady in this area, except the Christian widow from the thermopolium, and it seems unlikely she would seek me here.’

He shook his head. ‘This is not a widow, citizen, judging by her dress. And not a Christian, as far as I can see.’

I frowned. I could not imagine who it was. Unless . . . That letter I had sent to Glevum! I had asked for Junio. Had Gwellia decided to accompany him? The wax tablet had been carried by the imperial post – the swiftest horsemen in the world. With relays of fresh horses, a message could reach London in a day from anywhere in Britannia, it was said, so mine would have reached my roundhouse at least two days ago. If Gwellia had organised a lift in some light vehicle . . .

I turned to the slave-boy and said, with sudden hope, ‘Unless it is my wife?’

He stared thoughtfully at his sandal straps. ‘I do not think so, citizen. Not a wife, exactly. Possibly – a friend.’ There was a sort of embarrassed knowingness in the way he said this which made it more puzzling than ever.

‘A friend? I have no friend in Venta – and certainly no female ones.’

He did not look up. ‘She insists that you invited her to come.’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea who it can be,’ I said. ‘I don’t know any women in this town.’ And then, of course, I realised that I did. ‘It isn’t Lyra the brothel-keeper, by any chance?’

The servant was visibly relieved, but he did not meet my eyes. ‘I believe that is the name she mentioned, citizen. She said you had been asking for her in the town, and had required her to present herself to you.’

I sighed. ‘Well, that’s true, up to a point, but not for the reasons that she seems to think. I wanted her brought in for questioning.’ Why did I find it necessary to explain myself? ‘Well, never mind – I’ll go and speak to her. You’d better tell His Excellence she’s come.’

He didn’t move. ‘I shall have to tell the optio as well. My master is particular about these things. It may be that he won’t be pleased at all, and . . . well . . .’ He tailed off.

‘You think he would be angry because she’s here without a guard? I suppose it’s possible. I wonder that the sentry at the gate admitted her at all, much less permitted her to walk around the mansio unaccompanied in this way. I suppose he gave her directions to wait here in my room because he knew that we were busy interviewing someone else?’

Of course, even as I framed the words, I realised that the sentry had thought nothing of the kind. In the circumstances, what would anybody think? The boy obviously had his own opinions on the matter too, despite my explanations to the contrary. He made no reply but went on carefully scrutinising his feet, as though his toes were of enormous significance all at once.

I was about to protest my lack of interest in Lyra’s particular specialties when all at once the door of the sleeping quarters was opened from within and Lyra was standing there herself. She had evidently made an effort for her visit here. The pockmarks on her face were carefully disguised with thick white powdered chalk, and she had taken pains applying lamp-black to her eyes and wine-lees to her lips. Her hennaed hair was piled up in ringlets on her head, though it was clearly visible under the hood of her long green cloak and curls had been coaxed to stray down onto her neck in a way that would make any strict Roman mother blush.

All this titivation had been on my account and it was true that she looked a little more attractive now than I’d remembered her. I would have to disappoint her all the same. With her blackened teeth and exaggerated walk, she was not a type that much appealed to me – especially when that potent smell of cheap scent and onions came wafting from her every time she moved.

She was moving now – towards me, with a smile. ‘I hear that you were looking for me, citizen?’ she said, making her voice deliberately husky as she spoke. ‘I am sorry that I could not come at once, but I was out of town – very important business with a client.’ She shook her head free from the hood, and flicked the cloak back with an expert hand so that her inner tunic was revealed.

And not just her tunic, though that was eye-catching enough, being of fine fabric, deep red and richly decorated, but cut short like a man’s. I tried not to look at her lower legs – and found myself staring at the low-cut neckline instead. No hint of maidenly modesty about this! I tore my eyes away. ‘We had a few questions we wished to ask you,’ I said. I was trying to sound brisk and businesslike, but I found my throat was dry. I had not been expecting a reception of this kind, and finding Lyra in one’s private room was quite a different matter from encountering the lady in the street.

She smiled again, half closing her eyes into mysterious slits. ‘Of course, citizen. Anything you wish. You can ask as many questions as you like.’ She succeeded in making it sound as if this was a term agreed between us for improper services. She turned and stepped back inside the room, holding the door invitingly ajar. ‘I am at your command. Come in and see.’

It was awkward. The slave-boy was still staring at his feet, no doubt attempting to conceal a smirk. I have never in my life paid a woman for my needs – not even in the dark days when my wife was lost – and though I obviously did not intend to do so now, I still felt ridiculously ill at ease. There was something about the way she held herself, the flaunting walk and the way she leaned against the door-jamb which made me reluctant to be alone with her. Yet if I wanted Marcus and the optio to come – as I most sincerely did – I would obviously have to send the slave away to tell them she was here.

I tried the high-handed and severe approach. ‘You know it is against the law to try to ply your trade anywhere except on licensed premises?’

She gave me another smouldering smile. ‘Citizen, who said anything about my trade? I came here entirely at your request. I understand you sent a mounted guard to fetch me two days ago. He left instructions that I was to present myself to you for questioning at the earliest opportunity. So of course I came at once, as soon as I learned that you’d come back.’ There was nothing but sweet reasonableness in her words, but she allowed her eyes to linger over me and ran her tongue round the inside of her lips in a way which conveyed an altogether different message. She knew that she was creating an uncomfortable effect and she added, in the same honeyed tone, ‘As a law-abiding townswoman, what else could I possibly have done?’

I had allowed her to gain the initiative here, and I tried to wrest it back. ‘Very well. I will have a stool and water brought for you and you can wait while I eat my meal. Then we will see about interrogating you. See to it, boy,’ I murmured to the slave. ‘And you can make His Excellence aware that she is here. Ask for his permission to begin the questioning – perhaps your master could provide us with a room.’

The slave-boy seemed to recognise at last that my intentions towards the lady were after all what I’d declared. He leapt into obedience, suddenly alert. ‘At once, citizen. Allow me to serve you with your meal.’

I nodded and gestured him to precede me into the sleeping room, where a small stool and table was awaiting me. On it was a dish of cooling stew, a hunk of bread, a little end of cheese and a large metal beaker of red watered wine. At first I posted Lyra in the corridor to wait but she managed to look so provocative, leaning there against the wall, that it embarrassed me. It was obvious that she would flaunt herself in front of everyone who passed and I would be the gossip of the mansio; but if I shut the door and simply ate my meal there was a chance that – being there without a guard – she would slip away again. Either way I would look an idiot and Marcus would be seriously displeased. In the end I found a compromise. I allowed her to come into the room but told the slave-boy to leave the door ajar.